The Regroup
by PippinStrange
Summary: The Avengers are forced to retreat, leaving behind one of their own. Natasha Romanoff surveys the damage after a horrible battle, and unexpectedly gets roped into being a pseudo-mom for a very drugged Peter Parker. Humor, angst. One shot. Based on a super vivid Marvel dream that I had.


**_Hello dear readers! _**

**_Yet again I had a CRAZY Marvel dream. I've had a few the last few weeks, it's like my brain is pissed at me for working so hard on my own fiction instead of writing my Marvel fanfic. So without further ado, here's a strange dream that I had from Black Widow's POV in some sort of AU where the Avengers have been driven underground by a villain so bad they were willing to leave one of their own behind to tend to the wounded. I woke up sometime just after Ant Man's appearance, (long enough to hear a certain-someone wasn't dead like we thought) so the very last paragraph was what I made up in order to bring the story to a cohesive (and happy!) ending. Hope you all enjoy! Please leave a review, and I'm sorry I've been absent for SO LONG. It's been a really insane few months. I lost my job and got super busy with other weird life things, but mostly my writing time has been spent on my NaNoWriMo project instead of fanfic. I REALLY miss my Marvelverse though so I am hoping to really get back into it come January. _**

**_Thanks for sticking around, love to all!_**

**_Pip_**

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**The Regroup by Pippin Strange**

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Natasha Romanoff's POV

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In an old house in Philly, that was covered with vines, lived twelve little beds, in two straight lines…

I stare at the curvature of the stone bunker, too low for the claustrophobic. The cots in rows, IV lines bobbing on their iron rod headboards and medical staff darting from bedside to bedside. Some of the patients are friends. Many of them civilians, strangers. Some of them crying out and many under the influence of pain-relieving drugs.

Fortunately, the bunker was well stocked, prior to the battle that rocked the city from the highest building to the lowest cellar. What was left of the city, anyway.

"Brings back memories, doesn't it?" I ask.

Steve stands silently at my side, lost. Both in this world and the world war.

"Yeah," he replies. "It does."

From the low, mustard gas color of the cinderblock walls to the white coats from storage for the doctors and nurses - to the dust covered state of survivors still being pulled in and shown to one of the many rooms throughout the underground tunnels - a snapshot could have made it look like a makeshift hospital beneath London in the closed rail tunnels. The only difference being the modern technology hovering here and there - screens bearing holographic medical information above beds, and those wearing Stark technology.

"You alright?"

I turn towards him, a half smile at his concern. "I am if you are."

"That bad, huh?" he grants me an apologetic grin in equal measure.

"Hmph," I let out the breath of a closed-mouth laugh. "It's the job. We get through today. Then we get through tomorrow. No guarantees."

"That almost sounded optimistic, till the end," Steve puts a hand on my shoulder. I reach up quickly and tuck my palm over his.

"What can I say? I'm a realist. Always have been." We both drop our hands.

"Natasha, Steve," Bruce lumbers towards the half step in front of the circular iron door where we stand, observing. Waiting for the next initiative. There is an imperceptible shift in my body language - one I self-recognize as uncomfortable, confusion. Lonely.

He stays on the ground floor, so that he is eye-level.

"Bruce," I respond easily. My eyes trail down the bright splatter of blood against his white coat. "Is that…?"

"Not… not mine," Bruce says, his voice low with recognition, a large green hand gesturing absently to the stains as if to ward them away. "I just came to report he's… he's doing better. Still touch and go. But he's okay. For now."

I don't say anything.

"Thank you, Bruce," Steve responds for us both. "We're… we're lucky to have you. Here. Even under the circumstances."

As if on cue, a thunderous boom shakes high above our heads - somewhere outside, the residuals. Maybe another bomb. It's difficult to tell from a mile beneath the surface. A little bit of dust sprinkles down in a sandy hush, grains landing on the Hulk's broad shoulders and trickling down.

"I… I only assisted," Bruce admits, brushing the dust from his shoulder. "Dr. Cho did everything. Asked for my opinion when needed. But she probably saved his life. I'm… I'm a supervisor." He tries to smile. "You know when I finally - when I finally let the Hulk and I become - what we are - I didn't think thoroughly about the things I couldn't do."

"Or the people you couldn't touch?" I ask, before thinking it through.

Bruce's eyes light up with hurt, realization. We haven't spoken since...

"In surgery," I backpedal, gently. "In practice. With human hands."

It's a save, and he knows it. He knows I originally meant it exactly how it sounded - but it was coming from a place of hurt, without thought. He knows better than to dig deeper.

"Yeah," he recovers too. Steve shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Professor Hulk is another beast entirely. Maybe these hands are a little too big for the needlework… But… I can teach, I guess. I'm here if…" he looks at Steve. "I'm here to help."

"Thank you," Steve says hoarsely. "Thanks to both of you. I don't know what I'd do if…"

"I know," I say.

"Oh, and, uh, the kiddo is awake, too," Bruce adds, hastily changing the topic. "He's in and out, though. Pain meds are making him a little loopy."

"I want to see him," I say abruptly. "He took that hit for me. Got right in front of it."

Bruce steps aside and allows me to pass him. He takes up more space than he realizes now. It almost hurts my heart to walk this close to him. As if every hair on my body stands on end to acknowledge the yearning that used to exist between us, now, fizzling and dying with halfhearted sparks. Like a spent firecracker… once bright.

I give a quick eye to each bed that I pass. I forgot to ask which one he was in, but it doesn't take long. I step out of the alcove entrance from one tunnel to the other, leaving Steve's concerned line of sight as I make a left into the next cylindrical tunnel, also bearing rows and columns of beds. So many wounded.

Peter Parker is in the corner, lying spread eagle on the bed as if someone kicked him off a school bus, not a building. His bloodied suit is in tatters, some of it cut off and lying on the dusty floor. The vitals on the transparent screen above the bed look - not great, but stable.

He's grinning happily at the sight of me approaching the bed and holds up a hand. "Moooom," he says drowsily.

Mom… my mind echoes back. Never thought anyone would call me that, not in this life. What on earth does Bruce have him on?

His eyes look innocently wide and concerned at my lack of response, dilated wide and black with whatever he's on at the moment.

"Peter," I respond safely. I sit carefully at the edge of the bed and try not to flinch when he immediately tucks his hand into mine. Boyishly curling his fingers around and waving our hands back and forth a little, as if I was helping him as a toddler cross the street.

He smiles stupidly. "You came to see meeee."

"Of course," I smile back. Can't help it. Some are just too good for the world. I wish the superhero life had passed him by and left him well enough alone. "You helped me. You helped a lot of people."

"Pffffttt," Peter's eyes drift shut in the middle of blowing the raspberry and drops off again. I detach my hand from his and reach behind him, adjusting the small pillow to give his neck a little more support, and check the lines and vitals again. Still stable.

"Friday?" I ask the screen above the bed.

"How can I help?"

"Will you pull up a picture of Mary Parker, please?"

"Right away."

The picture takes over the vitals momentarily, a woman with dark red hair. The exact same shade as mine. No wonder he was confused. Our faces are completely different, my features are round and soft, hers are thin and strong. She looks like a scientist. A Shield Agent. Exactly the things we believed her to be, from what little intel we could gather on the death of her and her husband, Richard Parker. They were older when they had Peter, late thirties, early forties. When they died, Richard's younger brother Benjamin took him in with his wife May. When Ben was murdered, it was just May and Peter.

A family whittled down by violent deaths till there was only two left.

Efforts to find May Parker have been unsuccessful so far.

"He-ey, Mom," Peter says again, eyes sliding open in another attempt to remain conscious. I take his hand, preemptively. "Mom…" he repeats, confusedly, smacking his tongue to the roof of his mouth as if he tastes something strange. "Why am I saying mom?" he asks, his body language changes very subtly from loopy to lucid. "Am I calling for my mom?"

I squeeze his hand. "A little. And it's okay."

"Oh, I called… you… Mom," he realizes, turning bright pink. "In… in my… head… I was thinking, Spider-Mom. G-get it? Because I'm Spider-Man and you're… Black Widow… it made sense in my head, I swear…"

"I get it," I say. "Even with the pain meds."

No, I didn't. Somewhere in his drug addled mind he was making a joke about being superheroes with a spider-moniker. I immediately believed he was envisioning me as his mother because of the red hair. It's not his mistake. It's my wishful thinking - to be somebody's mom. Even by accident.

"Mhmmm…" Peter's eyes drift shut again, and he begins humming to himself. It's AC/DC. Something Tony would play.

"How's Mr. Stark?" Peter asks.

"I'm not sure," I say honestly.

I'm not sure what state his body is in.

I couldn't find him. I looked, and I looked… but we had to call it. Had to get down, get low… I don't have the heart or the will to explain any of this.

I tuck Peter's hand back into the blanket, draw it up to his shoulders, tuck him in and make sure he feels secure. I swipe my hand over the screen to send the picture away and return it to his vitals, still obsessively checking the numbers. They haven't changed - he's fine. Or he will be soon. With some recovery time, even less so with his healing factor.

"Sorry, I'm embarrassing," he whispers. "I'm an aaaaaass."

"You're not," I say. "You saved my life. You're an Avenger."

"I'm a… a… 'venger."

"You're the best of us," I reply quietly. I put on a face, with a tired smile and friendly, crinkled eyes, something easy to maintain, to get along with. We spies can put on emotions the way some put on masks. His is gone, and mine remains. For my fear of losing the kid when he took that hit for me, for losing Bruce and who he used to be, losing Tony somewhere above, losing Steve to the aftershock of losing the battle…

I put on the face, the tone, the body language. I'll be the strong one for as long as I can.

For now, a teasing smile, the look of an older mentor, razing the new guy.

"Spidey-son," I say gently.

He smiles in his delirium.

I walk away from the bedside, passing the rows, each cot like a shutter click, skipping frame by frame till I'm heading for the entrance of the bunker - the larger, underground hanger. It feels like an airport at night - no windows, just cave walls and metal. When the door lifts, it doesn't look out onto a runway, but a massive elevator lift big enough to taxi a small plane on to.

I barely noticed the crates of supplies pushed against the walls when I came through before, fleeing from a crusade we lost. I go to the nearest on now, where I had dropped one of my batons. I check the charge and slide it into my belt. Click.

I hear the tell-tale sound of someone checking a round to load behind me. I slide my gaze over my shoulder and look at Steve, standing twelve feet away, suiting up. He reloads another, cramming it into his belt with a look of steel.

I didn't have to ask. I never do. He's there.

Then comes the shield, magnetizing to the hold on his back.

I load another firestar and put it in my holster.

"Do you want to say it, or shall I?" I ask, sultry, just for the delight of seeing the look of confusion crossing his face.

"What?" he asks, tightening his gloves. "Good luck? For round thirteen?"

I turn on the small Stark earpiece and slide it in place, pop the joints in my neck and shoulders. The feed is tinny, crackles. Comes and goes for a moment before resolving - then the line is clear. A few surprised and familiar voices chime in, the airwave open again.

"The other one," I say.

Steve shakes his head a little, tapping his own earpiece. "It's all you."

"Avengers, assemble," I say, waiting for a sense of patriotism - the thrill - leadership, victory, hope - the things we represent, that we hope to build again.

Scott's voice. "Not to ruin the moment - thanks for the invite, and all - but… where, are we assembling, exactly?"

"East hanger," I respond.

"Not so easy, is it?" Steve asks.

I chuckle. "It has its moments."

"Be careful out there." Bruce.

"Who's talking?" Peter Parker. Oh, no. He's still wearing his.

The hanger doors begin to roll back, the cry of metal on metal and yellow hazard lights spinning in lazy circles at the caution-striped edges. Once the causeway to the elevator is exposed, we're overwhelmed by another signal cutting in.

"Jesus, Christ, team, been trying to reach you for hours."

My lungs flood with relief. He made it. He's okay.

"You guys have a nice nap? Ready to go for - what is it, round… ten?"

"Tony," Steve sighs. "Good to hear your voice."

"Mhm, because you probably thought I was a goner, didn't you?"

"Mr. Stark?"

"Anyone want to cut the kid off this frequency?"

"On it," Bruce promises.

"Waih… I can fight. I'm coming up. Don't leave without me. Oh, hi, Dr. Hulk. Er… Professor Bruce. Wait. That's not right. Yeah… Doctor Broke. Docco Bruke?"

A pause.

"Okay," Bruce says. "Tech reclaimed, kid dosed."

"Thank you."

I looked for you.

"Where were you?" I ask, my voice tighter than intended. "I looked for you. Before. I wouldn't have come down if I knew you were still up there... "

"I had my own getaway, Miss Romanoff. I didn't want to hold up the party, not when you had to leave so quickly… lots of wounded to transport. So I've been squatting up here for a few hours."

I cover the piece with one hand and look at Steve. "He stayed behind."

"I...I know," Steve replies uncomfortably.

"You could have made it down here," I say, moving my hand.

"Coulda, woulda, shoulda - my entire life has revolved around those three little words." I hear him cough and clear his throat. "The air is pretty bad up here. Bring glade."

"Even better," Steve says. "We're bringing the family."

I take a deep, meditative breath. "Let's get this son of a bitch."

Can't have the last word. Can't ever have the last word.

A crackle of feedback.

Tony whispers. "Language."

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**Thank you so much for reading guys, I hope you enjoyed that as much as I enjoyed dreaming it! :D**


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